Our Daily Bread... Breakfast is drunk down... Damp earth of the Graveyard... gives off the fragrance of the precious blood. City of winter... the mordant crusade of a boat full of Death. An emotion of fasting that cannot get free!

Daily happenings in our back garden:

I wish I could beat on all the doors,
and ask for somebody; Politician's 
Help the war refugees, and then
look at the poor refugees, and,
while they wept softly,
give bits of our abundance;
Fresh bread to them.
Shelters,
Dignity,
Perhaps a little bit of Hope,
But no jobs available even they
have two blessed hands,
which blasted the nails with one
blow of light,
and flew away from the Cross!
Lord...!
Are there any?

Every bone in me belongs to others;
and maybe I robbed them.
I cam to take something for myself
that maybe was meant for other;
But,
Do not come me to close, you
can stay somewhere, 
but,
not here, in my backyard.
Even I feel like a dirty
thief...

And in this frigid hour,
when the earth has the odour of
human dust
and it is so sad,
I which I could beat on all doors
and beg pardon from someone,
and make bits of fresh bread for him
here,
in the oven of my heart...!
Somebody need our help...

Is it ---
is it not ---
our problem ?